


Far Directions and Lonely Horizons

by Etro



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Big surprise, Character Death, Engagement, Forced from home, Freshly minted alpha, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Mass Exodus, Mr. Bubbles! No!, Pack Family, Pack Grief is painful, Peter's a bastard, Pining for the dead, Who betrayed erebody, alpha pack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-18
Updated: 2012-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 13:12:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etro/pseuds/Etro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness” -Sylvia Plath</p><p>The storm came and went, and Stiles is left to pick up the pieces and go. One last ultimatum issued by the Alpha Pack, to get out of Beacon Hills or live to regret it. With everything that's left at stake, they have no choice. So they go, far away, held together by the stubborn will to live to see their enemies die and to go home again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far Directions and Lonely Horizons

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first post on AO3, and I may continue it if people tend to like it. If not, well, I'll still be thinking about it...Please, enjoy!

                The train station that ran out of Selma was a familiar sight for Stiles. It was the only railroad near Beacon Hills, and it had been the only way they could afford to go to visit the oncology unit at San Jose Memorial. He had walked up the lonely platform, tiny hand clutched in a trembling one four times its size. He could still remember his dad’s face as he brought his eight year-old son to watch his mother fight to breathe in a hospital bed.

                He pulled up next to the platform, ticket clenched in one hand as he ran a hand fondly across the jeep’s interior. After a moment, he reached into the glove compartment and pulled the revolver that Chris Argent had pressed into his hands only two days before, checking its safety. He fished wolfsbane bullets out of the slot and set them on the dashboard before closing it. The doctored rounds glinted in the light of the rising sun, and a massive sigh wracked Stiles’ body as he reached for the first one. His fingers trembled with each click of a slug fitting into a chamber.

                Finally, the seemingly endless task of loading the gun was finished. Stiles knew how to handle firearms, his dad was a widowed cop with one kid for god’s sake, but it was never like this. Never with the quicksilver feeling of the fact that he might have to actually use one in the next 24 hours. The revolver clicked shut and the teenager shifts to tuck it into his waistline, concealing it underneath the hem of his shirt. He tries not to think about how it might be the last shirt he ever wears.

                The vehicle’s engine drops from its well-maintained purr to a clean silence. Stiles pulls out the keys and leaves them tucked in the driver’s side mirror for his father to find, opening the door and stepping out into the cool morning air. He locks the car and turns to look at it for a second. He’s early, he can spare a second.

                The jeep glows in the soft light, pastel blues highlighted in a dark paintjob. The teenager pats it slowly, chest filling with nostalgia and feeling a little ridiculous, pulls his backpack out of the trunk and walks away.

                The platform is mostly deserted. All of the commuters had already caught the earliest train that would take them into the city. Stiles treads softly down the concrete path and sits in one of the bench seats, leaning back and draping his arm behind himself casually. The figure next to him scoffs and looks up from her phone to stare at him dejectedly. Stiles had learned to see past the sharp sexuality and dripping contempt, so he just let out a short sigh and looked around.

                Eventually she broke the silence first, which the lone human on the track considered a win: “Morning, Batman.” Erica and Stiles had never really settled the dust between them, not since the whole “Kanima” thing. Still, they had their moments.

                “Catwoman.” The faintest hint of a smirk appeared on both of their lips, before a gust of fall wind pulled whatever good humor they had out of them. Erica went back to her phone for a bit and Stiles did everything in his power not to think about the weight of the gun he had on him.

Out of habit, he checked on his jeep, which was still sitting in the lot, safe and sound. Erica caught this motion and craned her neck, whistling as she caught sight of the car. “You’ve had her cleaned.” It wasn’t a challenge, or really a question either. It was the kind of statement that drew out explanation, rather than demanding it. Stiles hated himself for taking the bait.

“Felt like I owed her that much.” He expected Erica to mock him, snipe and pick at insecurities in the way that she’d endured for years. It was a little surprising when she shrugged, sprawling a little more in her chair and glancing at the teenager out of the corner of her eye. “Hey, I get it.” She said, “She’s a sweet ride. I actually felt bad that time I gutted her engine.”

Stiles snorted at that, but muttered “Thanks” anyway. He glanced at the blackberry with the deep crimson skin held loosely in the werewolf’s hand. “You text your parents goodbye?”

Erica scoffed and looked away. A while passed by before she turned back and bit her lip, whispering “What if I didn’t?” softly. Stiles chewed the inside of his lip and shrugged. Erica paused for a moment, looking hard at nails that could grow and rip a man to shreds. Her eyes drifted closed, and she swallowed grimly. A few clicks of the keypad later, she held up the phone for Stiles to see the text she had fired off seconds ago:

“I’m not dead. Don’t look for me.”

As goodbyes went, at least it was better than Stiles’. He hadn’t left a note or anything, just the jeep in this parking lot. He knew his dad would find it, would know that he had left it there on purpose. He would probably spend the rest of his life wondering why his son had left. Or, at least until this whole mess blew over, assuming they all survived. Both these outcomes were increasingly unlikely. Damn.

Stiles didn’t even jump when Boyd slid into the seat next to him, vending machine breakfast firmly in hand. He offered half the sandwich to Erica, who declined with a wave of her hand, before digging in. Stiles couldn’t even begin to contemplate eating right now, but he wasn’t a werewolf with a hyper-metabolism that was probably eating a hole through his stomach lining. “Isaac?” He asked, partially expecting for the third member of the pack to answer. Boyd shook his head, mouth full of pastrami and whole wheat bread. “Riding with Scott” he eventually managed around the meat and lettuce.

Stiles nodded and dropped his head in his hands, fingers digging into his skull. A burst of hopelessness ran through his brain, but he quickly pushed it down. If Erica and Boyd had noticed any change in his scent, they were blatantly ignoring it. Maybe they were too busy _not_ looking at each other. Stiles glanced at Boyd’s fingers, which were gripping the armrests of the bench pretty tightly. Another glance in the opposite direction displayed Erica’s fingers twitching from her phone to playing with the hem of her jacket and then back to her phone. Yeah, breakups were awkward. Even in the middle of an exodus.

Stiles checked his phone for the fortieth time since he had pulled out of the driveway as quietly as he could. He had offered his dad a glass of whiskey or three after dinner, which was weird and had almost got him caught. It had, however, meant that he could leave this morning. After a moment’s deliberation, he sent off one last text to his dad, powered it off, turned the device over in his hand and pulled the battery out of the back. With expert hands and dumb luck, he sank both it and the phone itself in the trash can a few feet away.

Lydia let out a few sarcastic claps as she and Jackson strode up the platform. The dark, rugged brown jacket that looked ridiculously good on Jackson was complimented by the black and white one that looked just as ridiculously good on his girlfriend. The two threw their packs into the seats on the other side of the bench, sitting just behind everyone else.

Stiles leaned back and stared at Jackson for a couple of seconds. The co-captain took a moment before grudgingly pulling out the fake IDs and tossing them to their new owners.

“Jean?” Erica asked with disgust as she read over the card. Jackson rolled his eyes and turned back around, grasping Lydia’s hand tightly and taking a deep breath. Stiles looked over the purposefully unremarkable driver’s license and felt odd not to see his last name on it. They had all burned their identification, before they left. It was a small miracle that no one had gotten pulled over.

Boyd made a non-committal grunt at whatever was on his new license. “I didn’t particularly like mine either.” Lydia said as she inspected her nails and Jackson growled a little. Lydia didn’t seem to even notice.

“I guess we’re all in the same boat”. Stiles tucked the laminated card into his wallet and checked his watch. The train would be there soon. He worried his bottom lip between his teeth as he looked around for Scott and Isaac.

“Yeah, the one up the creek without a paddle.” Jackson scoffed. Lydia elbowed him hard in the ribs and Stiles renewed his utter faith in the fact that if anyone was capable of keeping Jackson from terrorizing small towns, it was Lydia.

“I didn’t hear the Porsche.” Boyd said, glancing back at the couple seated behind him.

“We took the bus.” Lydia supplied, absentmindedly typing something into her phone before doing as Stiles had before her and disposing of it. She tossed it over one shoulder and sank it in the trash can with the practiced ease that she applied to everything.  She pocketed its battery.

                As the train became visible on the horizon, Scott and Isaac made their way onto the platform. The heavy duffle that hung from Scott’s left shoulder had belonged to Derek. Stiles recognized it, and even if he had, the way Erica and Boyd froze up for a second upon spotting it was a giveaway.

                “Hey man.” He let out a half-hearted wave as Scott slumped in the seat next to him. “Hey. You get out of the house ok?” Stiles nodded back. He spotted Melissa out in the parking lot, looking distraught and more worried than he’d ever seen her, but still getting back in her car and driving back towards Beacon Hills. Back towards where they’d lost.

                Isaac rested against the side of the bench, watching silently as the train pulled into the station. Everyone rose together, it seemed, and those who hadn’t got rid of their phones discreetly. Isaac tossed his under the train, and Stiles didn’t even hear the crack as it was obliterated by the furiously working wheels.

                As the doors opened and the group made their way in, Stiles hung back. He looked at the Beacon Hills skyline and blinked. A hand clasped over his shoulder and he turned to see Scott. “We’ll be back.”

                Stiles stepped on to the train and Scott nodded, heading towards the small group of seats that the pack had claimed in this empty section of the train. As the doors hissed closed, Stiles looked out of the glass as Beacon Hills blurred past, and then was gone.

***

                _The wind shrieked against the Hale house that loomed over them all. The quickly approaching thunderstorm tore away the charred shingles that had managed to stay adhered to the husk’s roof, whipping them out into the darkness behind them._

_Stiles stayed on his knees, just staring at Derek. The tall, wild grass had worked its way through the too rigid fingers that lay upon it. The blood was still fresh, and Scott was grabbing him by the shoulder and trying to pull him away._

_The Alphas had left them there, surrounding the body of the fallen Hale, with the ultimatum of “Get out of here. Or else.” once the dark haired female had cut through Derek’s neck. The pack hadn’t moved, all staring at the body in the middle of all of them. Peter’s corpse lay a bit down the hill, silent, still and unnoticed._

_Erica had her head buried in Boyd’s shoulder, and Jackson, in a rare show of decency, dipped his head and stood next to Isaac. Scott was still trying to get Stiles to look away, even though Stiles had pushed him off._

_It was at that moment that Derek took a breath that seemed to echo like the thunder crashing in the far distance. Lydia let out a gasp and all eyes turned towards the bleeding, battered form of the pack leader._

_Derek’s eyes were still glowing the dark red that Stiles had never gotten used to. He sucked in a breath of his own, never breaking eye contact with the dying Alpha who, strangely, never looked away from Stiles’ gaze._

_There was a strange kind of communication in that moment. Some part of Derek was clinging to Stiles because it was scared to die. Scared to leave everything behind and venture where the rage that had held him up couldn’t follow._

_They all knew that it was hopeless. Deaton was gone, Mrs. McCall was too far away and the blood kept coming. But Stiles knew that there wasn’t a single person there who didn’t hope, just a little, that the wounds would miraculously close._

_“Scott.” Derek’s breath was getting shallower and shallower, and blood spurted from the cut in his neck. Stiles felt a wave of nausea as he realized he could see Derek’s vocal muscles working. Scott was at his side, and only then did Derek break eye contact with Stiles, to look up at the teenage werewolf._

_A moment passes and Scott nods in sorrowful understanding. Lydia turns away and the need to hold Scott was never so apparent on Allison’s face. Derek looks at his pack and sleepily nods, eyes drooping as the blood runs out in thick streams. His eyes find Stiles’ again and stay there as Scott does what he must._

_A remembered blue blooms in the crimson irises as the power drains out of Derek’s body. They stay like that, and Stiles keeps their gaze long after their owner’s chest stops rising. Eventually he lets Scott (whose eyes he doesn’t recognize) pull him away, but before he’s led to the jeep, he turns to where Peter’s body lays and spits._

_He learns later that Jackson, Isaac, Erica and Boyd buried Derek properly, next to his sister. Peter was burned, something that Stiles was unendingly grateful for._

_The next day, Chris Argent gives Stiles a gun and tells him to watch his back. Scott and Allison say their goodbyes in the house and then Mr. Argent and his daughter drive away. Scott doesn’t look worried about the separation at all. Stiles supposes it has something to do with the ring Allison was wearing around her neck on a chain, which he only noticed as she tucked it into her shirt when she came out of her home. Mr. Argent had had his back turned, which was lucky for Scott_

_Stiles pats Scott on the back and they catch each other’s glances as they get in the jeep and the two laugh a little. He feels the humor catch in his throat and sees the flash of red bleeding into blue. The rest of the ride back to Scott’s place is filled with a bittersweet silence._

_***_

A hand jostles him awake, and Isaac tells him that they have to catch the next train in Bakersfield. The roundabout way of travel they were taking was to throw the Alpha’s off the scent, once they realize their mistake. They had already been talking about whom to divide the territory amongst as they disappeared into the dark that night. When they realized that the Beacon Hills pack was still in commission, and with an Alpha no less, they wouldn’t be pleased.

They had shown decorum in not involving humans, so Stiles wasn’t _too_ worried about his dad being maimed by the vicious blonde one that had almost taken off his hand once. He was more worried about what his leaving would do. The guilt gnawed at his insides, but there was no way he was letting everyone face this without him. He owed them all that much.

Scott yawned and stretched on the platform, moseying towards the diner where Jackson and Lydia were already seated with Erica and Boyd. Isaac brushed past him and went to join them. Stiles hung back for a second; looking around the station they’d be spending a good two hours at.

                Tall windows and beige walls were everywhere once they stepped off the platform. Late morning sun pushed through the glass, and the pack (the word itself was a reminder of what they had lost) sat in a clumsy silence as they waited for the food to be ready.

                “So…Has anyone ever been here before?” It was unlike Lydia to try to strike up conversation; usually it found her. It showed on her face as she rolled her napkin-wrapped utensils back and forth on the table. Isaac grunted out a no and Erica dipped her head in silence. Boyd raised his hand, but didn’t offer anything else.

                “We came here a while back. My mom piled Stiles and me into the back of her old car and we drove for hours. The Sherriff…couldn’t make it that time.” Scott spoke softly, towards the end of the sentence. It had been when his mom had been dying. Stiles had nearly forgotten that trip.

                “We always meant to go again, with Dad.” He said, corner of his lip turning upwards in something that wasn’t a smirk or a smile at all. “The car broke down, remember? We had to take the train and your mom was _so_ pissed.”

                Scott nodded an affirmative, his eyes bright with past memories. Isaac winced a bit at the image of Melissa McCall on the warpath and the table laughed. As the chuckles died down, Erica lifted her chin, a grin forming on her lips. “ _Bacon._ ” She announced, just as the platters were brought on a cart by their server.

                As everyone tucked in, Jackson excused himself. Stiles would be lying if he said that he didn’t still feel the slightest twinge of jealousy at the way that Lydia subtly glanced after him, too independent to do it openly. Stiles played with his eggs and hash browns, not even complaining when Boyd plucked nearly all his bacon from his plate.

                A good ten minutes later, Scott pushed himself from the table, wiping a still chewing mouth and muttering “bathroom” as he turned and strolled away. Jackson still hadn’t come back, so it came as no surprise to Stiles when the three leftover werewolves suddenly stopped eating. Isaac’s fork hovered halfway between his plate and his mouth as a look of unabashed terror filled his eyes. Stiles recognized that look, and was pushing himself from the table and all but sprinting for the restroom before Isaac could even whisper _“fight”._

                He pushed the door to the bathroom open just as Jackson was thrown into the tiled wall in front of him hard enough to crack the material. Rather than get up, the Beta hissed _“You’re not my Alpha”_ from his spot on the floor.

                Stiles shrank back a bit as Scott picked Jackson up and shoved him into the wall. “We don’t have time for this” he said, voice gravelly. It was strange hearing his best friend growl with a tone that Stiles had reserved for Derek, or, at one time, Peter. “Go back to the platform. Get on the goddamn train.”

                Jackson slunk back outside, face shifting as he went. Stiles approached Scott and watched the red fade from his eyes.

                “You okay man?” Scott smiled at that, and the memory of his face verging on wolfing out was already fading.

                “Yeah. Didn’t mean to get so rough with him. I guess I get why Derek acted the way he did now; it’s more like an instinct than a choice, to avoid any potential challenge, you know?” Stiles nodded, holding up his hands in a mock surrender.

                Scott left enough money to fix the wall folded in a napkin on their table (with a carefully written apology) and they left. The train pulled out of the station and Stiles fell back into sleep.

***

                _He was drowning._

_He was drowning and Ms. Morrell was nowhere to be seen. There was moonlight and the sound of his dad screaming above the black water. He wasn’t stopping, he couldn’t move. It was everything he’d feared, the inability to breathe, the instinct to hold his breath that he couldn’t choose to let go of._

_The loose red cotton of the checkered shirt he’d been wearing overtop his favorite black t-shirt slid against his arms as it was pulled free, floating upwards into the light as Stiles sunk deeper. The pattern twisted as the fabric bunched in the water, swimming before the boy’s eyes._

_The sight of the drifting garment, strangely, lit the need for survival in Stiles’ chest. He pushed against the heavy liquid gripping his limbs, slowly propelling himself upwards. Up, towards the sound of his dad hoarsely yelling his name, towards the moon._

_The surface was within arm’s reach. He let the last of the air finally burst from his lips, reaching out in a desperate lunge._

_And something gripped his ankle. The water rushed into his body as he fell. Down, down, vainly, weakly struggling as he turned himself to face his assailant, pressure driving whatever oxygen was left in his lungs out. The lake rushed into his body as red eyes stared directly into his and turned blue._

_***_

               For the second time since that morning, Isaac woke him awake. It was different than before, because this time they were still on the train, and Scott was looking at him with a worried expression. Stiles raised his eyebrow and Scott whispered to him, glancing at the others, save for Isaac, who were thankfully still distracted.

                “You weren’t moving.” Stiles wasn’t sure if he visibly paled, but he knew why Scott was bothered. He had always moved, even twiddling his thumbs in his sleep. Back in the sleepovers of their childhood, Scott had gone so far as to make pillow walls to keep Stiles from rolling across the floor and overtop of him.

                Isaac didn’t say anything, which Stiles was thankful for. He liked Isaac, now that they weren’t, you know, trying to kill each other. Stiles blinked, and shrugged.

                Scott didn’t push the subject. The quiet murmur of the pack (who, if they were listening, were again keeping a respectful distance) continued at the edge of Stiles’ hearing. The train kept moving, and his hands kept trembling in his pockets.

**Author's Note:**

> Poor Derek ):. And Stiles. How did you like the new, freshly-minted Alpha Scott? The title's taken from this quote: “And the danger is that in this move toward new horizons and far directions, that I may lose what I have now, and not find anything except loneliness” -Sylvia Plath. Not EXACTLY, mind you. I rearranged a little :)


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